Watson's Woes July 2015
by Pompey
Summary: Creating a master-list of fics for my challenge answers for 2015. Various universes, varying lengths, varying ratings, but all whumping on Watson.
1. July 1 - Worst that could happen

Title: Superstition and the Sword

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD with a crossover.

Warnings: touch of crackiness, AU

Word count: 781

Summary: As any good horror show can tell you, never read out loud from a magic book. Part 1/?

Prompt: July 1 "What's the worst that could happen?"

Author's note: Did you know Disney put almost every episode of "Gargoyles" on youtube in the U.S.?

* * *

It is said that a man reaps that which he sows. Certainly it was not Watson's fault that our train back to London was delayed for repairs, but it was his idea that we idle away our last few hours in Scotland with some sight-seeing at Castle Wyvern. Likewise, it was he who struck up a conversation with a commonplace mannequin by the name of Owen Burnett, who, despite his lack of a Scottish accent, seemed to be what passed for curator at the castle. And it was Watson who listened with polite interest to Burnett's story, delivered in a painful monotone, of how the "gargoyles" of Castle Wyvern were once creatures of flesh and blood by night and slept as stone by day. Unfortunately, a Viking invasion had destroyed most of them as they slept and the few remaining ones had been cursed to be stone until the castle itself rose above the clouds.

"They say," Burnett concluded, "that the book of spells kept here under glass is the very one the Magus used to place the curse." He gestured to a small display case now clouded over by scratches and dust.

"That is," I replied, my patience at an end, "more likely than not a Renaissance herbalist manuscript."

The irritating, unflappable man scarcely raised an eyebrow. "I do not dispute there are incantations for health in the book. The book is open to one such spell, meant to heal wounds. If one were a man who knew how to read Old Gaelic, one might just be able to prove you wrong, Mr. Holmes."

I was about to retort that while I might not know Old Gaelic, I could at least tell the difference between a gargoyle rain gutter and a grotesque, which is more than he could say. However, Watson stepped up to the decrepit glass case before I could utter a word.

"I am only slightly familiar with Scotch Gaelic," he admitted, "but I do not mind having a go of it. The worst that could happen is I sound foolish for a minute or two."

Foolish is precisely how I would have described his actions, but though his words were hesitant, they seemed to echo slightly through the crumbling stone hall in which we stood. Even Burnett appeared impressed, if the scant fraction of a smile was any indication. "That was nicely done," said he, "although with such an English accent, and with a book of magic so deteriorated, who knows what it is you might have wrought."

Watson merely laughed at that. I was inclined to take a more irritated reaction to Burnett, had the light not suddenly glinted off his eyes in a peculiar way. I am not a fanciful man but at that moment, I swear there was a green, unearthly glow to his gaze.

. . . . . . . .

"Thank heavens the train was not a minute later or we should have met the maid beginning the day's duties," Watson commented almost as soon as we set foot in our sitting room. "I suppose it is no use in saying 'good night' when daybreak is scarcely an hour away."

"Be it good night or good morning, the arms of Morpheus beckon regardless," I replied. With some concern I noted how stiffly he held his shoulder and how his limp had become noticeable again, both signs he was overly tired or in pain. "I see that healing spell you recited early today – or yesterday, I suppose – was utterly useless. Would you care for some brandy first?"

"No, no. I shall be fine after a good sleep." Watson gave a half-hearted wave at me and trudged up the stairs to his bedroom. I went to my own bed, but only after leaving a note for Mrs. Hudson that Watson was on no account to be disturbed.

Thus I was the one to make the horrifying discovery that afternoon, after I had determined that Watson had slept longer than even his previous exhaustion could account for.

The form in the bed was the correct size for my friend, although I was startled to see how the bed sank under its weight. Then, too, the back of the form's head was entirely grey whereas Watson's hair had certainly not aged to that point. When I touched the shoulder beneath the bedclothes, my fingers found a frightening, cold hardness. I could not roll him over despite my effort.

My heart thudded wildly as I walked around to the other side of the bed. It was Watson's face that met mine, of that I had no doubt.

But it was his face, his body, sleeping in stone, like the gargoyles of Castle Wyvern.


	2. July 2 - yellow

Title: Stone by Day

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles.

Warnings: touch of crackiness, AU

Word count: 221B

Summary: The aftermath of reading aloud from magical books. Part 2/?

Prompt: July 2 "Yellow"

Author's note: this part ends happily but the ride's only getting started *evil grin*

* * *

I spent the evening hoping that if I could only cudgel my brain hard enough, I might find a different solution to the problem of the stone statue in Watson's bed. The statue itself was genuine rock, but it could not have been brought into Watson's room without my seeing or hearing it. It was the perfect likeness of him, and that would have taken time to carve. Moreover, why should it be in Watson's bed? The whole thing smacked of a distasteful practical joke but Watson's sense of humor never ran to such things.

But living flesh cannot become stone. That is impossible, and as such, I must eliminate it from my selection of solutions. That is what I told myself as the last yellow rays of the sunset faded from the room.

In the dim light I saw blue cracks appearing in the statue. They ran across the surface like fine, innumerable creases before disintegrating the rock entirely, leaving behind dust and gravel. And in the midst of this rubble was my friend – whole, unharmed, and alive.

"Watson!" I exclaimed, grasping his shoulders impulsively and startled him into full waking. He blinked at me in confusion, then glanced about him.

"Holmes," he asked in a voice faintly tinged with annoyance, "why are there bits of rock in my bed?"


	3. July 3 - leaf skull picture

Title: Time of Fear

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles.

Warnings: supernatural AU

Word count: 200

Summary: Further aftermath of the healing spell. Part 3/?

Prompt: July 3: picture dead leaf with half a skull on it

* * *

The first night after returning from Scotland, I dreamed of dead leaves and white bones, and the macabre death-grin of a skull. And then, all of it went up in a blaze that burned white and cold, like ice. When the fire died away, I saw that the leaves were fresh and green again. The bones were men again, walking about though they took no notice of me. The grin remained, no longer in a skull, but instead on the face of a person of indeterminate sex with inhumanly long ears and long white hair. The eyes flashed green at me, and that was when I awoke to find Holmes bending over me and my skin grimy with stone dust.

Holmes never did give me a satisfactory explanation but soon I had other thoughts to occupy me. Each subsequent night I dreamed of flight, and each day I awoke to find my old scars smaller, paler, and less painful than the day before.

I also discovered, each morning, that two lumps along my shoulder blades grew larger. The skin became tighter and more transparent every day until it was horrifically clear that within each lump was a single, bat-like wing.


	4. July 4 - Travel and foreign lands

Title: The Age of Gargoyles

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles.

Warnings: supernatural AU

Word count: 1089

Summary: The spell is finally complete. Heaven help our boys. Part 4/?

Prompt: July 4 - "Travel and foreign lands."

* * *

I feel like a man without a country – and indeed, for a man whose homeland is Reason and whose native tongue is Logic, I could not be further out of my element. I have seen Watson transformed into a stone statue that shattered at nightfall. I have watched his movements grow more fluid and carefree, as I know his old wounds would never permit him to be. I have observed how, lately, he tries never to turn his back to me, lest I get a better look at why his shirts and jackets no longer fit correctly.

And then, this morning.

I knew what the sound was the moment I heard it. There is no disguising the scream of a man in agony, no matter how he tries to muffle it. In an instant I was bounding up the stairs to Watson's room. He was kneeling on the floor, clad only in trousers, and trembling fiercely. I noted that his hands were buried into the floor, squeezing the wood as though it were soft as clay. However, my attention was fixed upon the monstrous sight of two beige, bat-like wings. There were minute sprays of blood on the walls, with more blood dotting the wings and trickling from what appeared to be a ruptured membrane on his back. If my deduction was correct, then it was small wonder even my stalwart friend had cried out.

"Watson," I whispered, stepping closer. Immediately his head came up and he snarled at me, eyes blazing an angry yellow and baring not human teeth but fangs. This was not the snarl of a man wakened at an ungodly hour on a winter's morning or the justified pique of a man whose sensibilities I have pushed too far. Those I was used to. This was the warning of a feral creature that might just as soon tear out my throat if I ventured nearer. And yet, the feral creature in question was still Watson.

"Watson, I only wish to help you," I said, hoping that some humanity remained in him and that I could reach it. "Please. You are bleeding. Let me staunch the wound, Doctor."

He paused at that, and I was relieved beyond words to see that weird yellow light in his eyes fade away. But though he was looking at me directly, he seemed confused, as though he had not heard me properly.

"You are bleeding," I repeated. "Let me help you."

"Bleeding," Watson echoed faintly. He blinked and finally seemed to see and hear me. "Yes. I – yes." He looked down at his hands and drew them out of the floorboards. I was dismayed to see that his fingers had become thick, powerful claws but there was nothing I could do about it so I chose to say nothing. Instead, I offered him a hand to help pull him to his feet.

Watson jerked back me. Those terrible wings folded in on themselves like twin umbrellas. "No. Don't touch me."

"All right," I agreed, not commenting that it would be extremely difficult to tend to back without touching him. "But can you make it downstairs on your own?"

"I can try," he growled so fiercely that I did not dare say anything further. I merely followed him down the stairs, changing course only to snatch up his doctor's bag before closing the bathroom door behind us.

In the bathroom, Watson silently knelt on the tile and gripped the edge of the bathtub, allowing me full access to his back. I lit the boiler for the water heater first before giving him my full attention.

The wings were their own appendages, separate from the arms, with their own bony framework supporting a webbing of skin but no fur or hair. At the end of each wing were three claws. I noted that the shape and position of the claws of one side relative to the other meant they could interlock, rather like the clasp of a cloak. I also noted that despite the bleeding, there was no warmth or reddening of the wound itself.

"Well?" Watson muttered. "How does it look?"

My heart clenched but I forced my voice to be steady. "The bleeding is not serious. It should heal without much trouble. I shall make sure to dress it properly to ward off infection."

"I didn't mean – " Watson bit back his protest and instead whispered, "Thank you."

"Don't thank me just yet," I warned. "It needs to be washed first and I daresay it will hurt."

"It still hurts. Just do it."

With such encouraging words, I wet a flannel in warm water and gently took hold of the left wing. Watson shuddered only once but did not retract the wing from my grasp. The webbing was soft and supple, like the finest calfskin leather, but cool to the touch. I worked in silence, removing the dried rivulets of blood from the wings before venturing to cleanse the torn skin. Watson inhaled sharply but otherwise made no sound or movement. Finally, I applied silver nitrate and bandages with sticking plaster. When I had done all that I could think of to do, I closed the bag with a soft click.

As though that were the signal he had been awaiting, Watson folded his arms on the rim of the bathtub and rested his head against them. He still said nothing, and yet his posture – right down to the droop of his new wings – indicated nothing but despair. It was then I realized that there was still something I could do to help him.

"Watson? Watson, dear fellow, look at me, please."

Slowly, wearily, his head rose and he half-turned to face me. His eyes were his own still but I would have rather seen that unholy yellow light in them again than the misery that was in them at that moment. Nevertheless, I pressed on.

"Watson, how tightly can you fold your wings? Enough to hide them under a pillow if you were in a wheelchair?"

I watched in some satisfaction as the misery changed into unadulterated confusion. "What?"

"Could we successfully disguise you as a badly wounded man in wheelchair?"

"I suppose so," replied he, bewildered, "but I cannot spend the rest of my life like that."

"No, my dear Watson, I assure you, you need only spend a few days in such a disguise. We are going back to Scotland. We are going to find that Owen Burnett and find out how to reverse this transformation."


	5. July 5 - note to self, reminder

Title: Sworn to Protect

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles.

Warnings: supernatural AU

Word count: 150

Summary: Mrs. Husdon demands to know what is wrong with Watson. Holmes tells her. Part 5/?

Prompt: July 5 – note to self, reminder

* * *

Mrs. Hudson glared at me. "I am used to your ways, Mr. Holmes. I can tell when something is amiss. And with the way Dr. Watson has been acting this past week, and today blood in his bedroom, and now you demanding I go out and find a wheelchair without any explanation . . . No, Mr. Holmes! I will remind you, sir, that you are not the only one who cares for the doctor, and if there is something truly wrong with him – " She stopped, but the tears in her eyes spoke eloquently. I softened.

"It is serious but not contagious," I replied. "I believe returning to Scotland will help him return to his usual self. It started in Scotland, although neither of us realized it at first. "

"And what, praytell, is 'it'? The truth, Mr. Holmes!"

The truth? Very well. "Just a bad spell, Mrs. Hudson."


	6. July 6 - imitate the tiger

Title: Warriors By Night

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles.

Warnings: supernatural AU

Word count: 305

Summary: Things get worse before they get better. Part 6/?

Prompt: July 6 - "Imitate the action of a tiger"

* * *

It was dusk when we finally arrived at the same Scottish train station we had departed from just over a week ago. Watson and I were the only passengers to disembark. As soon as we were off the platform and away from lanterns and candles, Watson stopped me from pushing the wheelchair any further.

"You recall where the inn is?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Good. I shall see you tomorrow then." With that, he tore the bandages from his hands and lower face. Just as quickly, he flung off the oversized hat and jacket of his disguise and stretched out wings to their fullest length with a sigh of relief.

"Exactly where do you mean to go?" I demanded.

Watson shrugged in the moonlight. "Oh, around," replied he lightly. "The night is calling and I must answer it. But I give you my word, I shall see you tomorrow."

He did not launch into flight, as I expected. Instead, his wings came down around his shoulders like a cloak and he merely walked into the darkness. As I watched him disappear, I felt cold and hollow, as though I had just seen the last of the friend I had known. The feeling only intensified in the morning, when it was clear he had not returned. Like a man mounting the gallows, I made my way back to the castle and climbed the crumbling steps.

I suspected it, of course, but seeing it with my own eyes was another thing entirely. In the sunlight there was a new stone gargoyle among the old, vine-covered ones on Castle Wyvern. Though it crouched like a tiger ready to spring, though it had wings and claws and fangs, it still had Watson's face. And though I could touch the statue's shoulder, I could not help but feel utterly alone.


	7. July 7 - unwanted attention

Title: We Are Gargoyles

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles.

Warnings: supernatural AU

Word count: 1212

Summary: An offer is made. Part 7/?

Prompt: July 7 – unwanted attention

* * *

I had no set destination after I left Holmes at the train station. It was enough to be on the move in the night, testing out a new nighttime vision that seemed to be the last of the transformations. I could not see as clearly as I could in sunlight but it was far easier to perceive objects and motions than it had been even a day ago. Nevertheless, I did not see the body that flung itself onto me, knocking me to the ground.

I found myself tucking into a roll and flinging off my attacker, only to stop when starlight glinted off a steely blade aimed at my throat. Said blade was held by a winged creature with bluish skin and a shock of bright red hair held away from her forehead by a gold band. That the creature was female was abundantly obvious, as the curves of her figure were barely clad in an immodest pale skirt and a downright indecent sleeveless blouse that left her abdomen uncovered. "You are trespassing on my territory. Who are you?" she demanded.

"My name is John Watson."

Immediately the blade pushed harder into my skin. "That is a human name and a human answer," the creature snarled contemptuously.

"Until recently, I was a human."

She drew back her weapon slightly. "But you are a gargoyle now. How?"

It galled me to admit my folly, though it had seemed such a little thing then. "I read a spell from an ancient book."

"There is a spell that turns human into gargoyles?"

"It was a healing spell. I didn't anticipate it would have this effect," I protested.

The creature sheathed her blade and turned slightly from me. "The stone sleep of our kind during the day has restorative powers for almost any injury, except for magical ones," she murmured, although to herself or to me I could not discern. "You read it from an ancient book?"

"Yes, in Castle Wyvern."

Her hand flashed out and seized my wrist. "Show me."

"It is a long walk – " I began but the creature cut me off.

"If it is at the castle, we can glide there. The air currents are strong enough tonight."

"Glide?" I repeated. "Don't you mean 'fly'?"

"Gargoyles cannot fly," she corrected me, contemptuous again but with a hint of amusement at my ignorance. "We can only glide. Or climb sheer stone cliffs and walls." She waggled her claws at me and I recalled how I had destroyed part of my bedroom floor during the worst of my transformation. "Come," she ordered, and tugged me towards a large evergreen.

As we climbed it, I felt the strength of the wind pick up. I was torn between an unease at how high up we were and an exhilaration at what I knew she would ask next of me. Indeed, with scarcely a conscious thought, my wings unclasped and spread. The female gargoyle smiled at me, and we both launched into the air.

If I were a poet I might find the words to do justice to the sensation. It is no wonder that man dreams of flight. It is a glorious, terrifying thing to leave the ground below you and swim through the air. Even I, merely gliding instead of flying and clumsily at that, felt a sort of pity for the earth-bound ones who could never hope to understand the joy and awe of wings.

We landed on the highest parapet, less by choice and more by concession to my inexperience. The female gargoyle might have been able to neatly spiral down into the courtyard as she insisted she could, but I had no such confidence in my own skill. Thus we walked prosaically down the steps and to the decrepit display case.

"The Grimorum Arcanorum," the creature whispered, splaying claws over the glass case. "The most powerful book of human spells in the world. In any world. With this book, I could recreate my clan."

"Your clan?" I repeated.

She gestured above us. "My first clan was all but wiped out by the humans while they slept. What remains of it, will sleep as stone until the castle rises above the clouds. Forever, in other words. And the clan I formed afterwards was destroyed by humans as well." Her lips drew back from her fangs and she suddenly turned her back on the book. "No. I have changed my mind. I will not have filthy humans in my new clan." Her eyes suddenly fixed on me. "But it would be good to have a real clan again. I have lived alone for nine hundred years. My mate and leader is among those who will sleep forever thanks to the Magus and our egg – all the eggs in the rookery – were stolen by humans centuries ago."

I stepped back, not liking the intense look she gave me. "If you do not want to create of clan of humans-turned-gargoyles, I cannot help you. I was a human also before the spell. Why should you want me?"

"Because, through your spell and my bloodline, our children would be wholly gargoyle."

"Children!"

She advanced towards me as a snake with a mouse. "You are male and I am female. We are the last two gargoyles left in existence – a new Adam and Eve to rebuild a lost world." She held up her arms, I believe, to embrace me but this time it was I who grabbed her wrists.

"My nature is still that of a human," I told her firmly. "I only returned to Scotland to find a way to reverse the spell."

"And if there isn't a way?" She laughed unpleasantly when I did not answer, and pulled out of my grip. "Think it over. There are worse things to be than a gargoyle." With that, she effortlessly climbed up the courtyard wall, leaving clawmarks behind her, and launched herself from the low parapet into the night sky.

Slowly I climbed the steps to the parapet where the stone gargoyles crouched. Vines and mosses had grown over them, yet they were still impressive figures. Would it truly be so bad to remain one of them? Or was the power of near-flight in a life of eternal night even worth the sacrifice of walking freely under sunlight or moonlight, in human company?

It was only the graying of the sky that interrupted my musings. Dawn was close and I had told Holmes I would see him the next day – today, if I wanted to be accurate. But to leave now was to risk being seen by the villagers. It was, I finally decided as the first rays of the sun struck me, was too dangerous. Besides, Holmes was the world's finest detective. He could deduce my whereabouts if anyone could.

Holmes was indeed waiting nearby when I awoke. My gladness fell away, however, when I saw his grim countenance and heard his news: as far as the villagers knew, there was no such person as 'Owen Burnett,' nor had Castle Wyvern ever had a curator.

Holmes gave me his assurances that his investigation would continue but I paid him only half my attention. The female gargoyle's words from the night before were ringing in my memory.


	8. July 8 - Ballad of Reading Gaol

Title: A Wistful Eye

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles.

Warnings: supernatural AU

Word count: 593

Summary: The investigation moves forward, and a revelation Holmes does not like. Part 8/?

Prompt: July 8 – The Ballad of Reading Gaol

* * *

It was a blow to the investigation when I could discover nothing about "Owen Burnett," although I was not especially surprised. Neither his accent nor his clothes had been local, and the name "Owen" has Welsh roots. What, then, was he doing in an obscure, crumbling Scottish castle? And why had he taken such pains to relate the stories about the gargoyles and the magical book? It had all the hallmarks of a trap of some kind. Had it been laid for any passer-by, or had Watson – or I, for that matter – been the intended quarry? And for what purpose?

Rather out of habit for me, I spoke aloud these thoughts to Watson. To my surprise, he looked mildly embarrassed. "I can think of one purpose. I met another gargoyle last night. She said she was alive during the Viking attack."

" 'She'?" I emphasized. "I knew the fair sex was your department, Watson, but I never imagined your influence would extend so far."

"I would not exactly call her 'fair,'" he replied, clearly annoyed. "Forceful and impulsive, certainly. And if she is to be believed, she is over nine hundred years old."

"That is a substantial difference in age," I remarked gravely, only to be softly growled at. "But what purpose could she have in – " I stopped, finally understanding what was discomforting Watson to the point that he took offense to my gentle jabs . If this female was the only one of her kind to escape the Viking slaughter, might she not be the last of the living gargoyles? And because of that, would she not desire to continue the species when she found a potential mate? Further, could the fictional Owen Burnett have been a ruse specifically to find, or at least create, a potential mate for her?

"She propositioned you."

I could not tell in the darkness but from the slithery rustle of shifting wings, it sounded as though Watson had positively squirmed. "She did. I declined."

"Was she angry?"

"No." There was a pause, then he added quietly, "She asked me what I would do if there wasn't a way to revert into being human again. She sounded confident I would change my mind about her offer."

I had not allowed myself to speculate that there was not some sort of reversal spell. I refused to do so now. "Well. That certainly implies she knows something about this whole matter. She may not be the instigator but perhaps she knows who is. If you know how to seek her out – "

"Holmes."

The tone of his voice sent a chill across my heart which I tried to cover. "Yes, Watson?" I asked as casually as I could. If only I could see my friend's face clearly rather than through the darkness and the shadows!

"There was no counter-spell to free the gargoyles cursed to sleep as stone. If there truly is no counter-spell for me . . . then I will accept her offer."

"My dear fellow!"

"I thought about it for most of the night," he went on relentlessly. "If I must live in this form, then it would be better to do so here, with like company. I would never again see the blue of the sky, but I already know what it is to be among the clouds.

"Do not misunderstand me, Holmes. It is not my first choice. I would much prefer to be human again. But I thought you should know my decision in case . . . Just in case. "


	9. July 9 - Healer's choice

Title: Decision

Author: Pompey

Universe: Basil of Baker Street

Warnings: character death offscreen (non-main character)

Word count: 300

Summary: Dawson may be a brave and strong mouse, but he is still only one mouse.

Prompt: July 9 – the one Watson chose not to save

A/N: just needed to take a break from 8 straight days of gargoyles. Have some mice and birds instead!

* * *

Generally, the worlds of birds and rodents do not cross except to compete for food or to avoid becoming food. Nevertheless, when I found two pigeon fledglings crying piteously on the ground, I stopped to see if I could help.

Each was about two-thirds the size of an adult pigeon and had not come into their final plumage, so I guessed they were about three weeks old. "Are you hurt?" I asked. They either did not speak Mouse or they did not trust me enough to answer. I examined them as best I could, given their protests. I found nothing worse than bruises.

Likely the noise attracted the cat. Luckily it was male and I smelled him far before I saw him. I knew there was an escape tunnel nearby, one hopefully large enough to accommodate all of us. "Follow me," I ordered, tugging on them in the right direction, but they resisted. Meanwhile, the smell of the cat grew stronger.

I don't recall any conscious thought that went into which bird I would save. There was only the desperate need to save one of them, either of them, so long as it was possible. I threw my arms around the nearest fledgling, pinning its wings. Then I dragged it, still peeping, to the tunnel. Its sibling screamed after us until the pitch changed from outrage to terror.

I did not dare turn to look nor release my chosen fledgling. The moment we reached the tunnel, I shoved it in and clamped both paws over its beak. The bird I had left behind continued its shrieks until they were suddenly cut off. In the terrible silence that followed, my fledging pressed against me so hard I nearly tumbled over, and I changed my grip from one of suppression to comfort.


	10. July 10 - what's all this then

Title: The Trials and Tribulations of a Country Constable

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles

Warnings: supernatural

Word count: 479

Summary: Pity the poor policeman who has to contend with Sherlock Holmes , gargoyle!Watson, and a man who doesn't exist. Part 9/?

Prompt: July 10 – what's all this then

* * *

I know our village has nae been the most canny of places. Every now and again come tales of odd occurrences - of lights in the dark where they ought not to be, bits of fairy music in the distance, even of the gargoyles moving though they always manage to end up in their proper places with nary a bit moss out of place. But this is the modern age, I try to be a man of science.

I like to think Mr. Sherlock Holmes appreciated my efforts during his investigation not quite a fortnight ago. It's lucky he was here to help before the folk began to spin tales of elf-arrows and curses when what was to blame was simple human sin.

But last night, me own sister came to me swearing she saw two creatures flying around the castle. Big as men, she said, and looking like two demons straight out of the pit. And she wasn't the only one. Now, I may not believe such tales but I'm also nae foolish enough to go prowling about crumbling stone walls in the middle of the night with naught but a lantern betwixt me and tumbling off the hill.

I did mean to go up to investigate the next day, truly. But when I saw Mr. Holmes back here after seeing him depart, and the sorts of questions he asked, it slipped my mind. Then, when he asked me to keep my eyes open for a man by the name of Owen Burnett, well, I felt as though it were a duty placed on my shoulders by a great man. Besides, for all I knew, the man Mr. Holmes wanted was a most dastardly criminal in the Empire. (Though why he should want to come here and play curator to a ramshackle castle in a poor village was quite beyond me.)

Now, though, I don't know what to think. Sunset was an hour ago and I myself have seen a light up at the castle, and I would swear with my hand on the Holy Writ that one of the stone gargoyles moved. And nae five minutes ago, a blond stranger came up to me. "I hear someone is looking for me," says he. I asked him who that might be, and who he was.

"I am Owen Burnett," he replies. "And it is Sherlock Holmes himself seeking me." Then he looks up at the castle and says, "Ah. I think that must be he." And then – then Owen Burnett disappears right before me very eyes, like a candle blown out.

So, lads, make of that what ye will. All I know is, I am finishing with me rounds for the night. I am finishing this pint and if anything else uncanny should happen up at the castle, I am dreadful sorry but you're all on your own.


	11. July 11 - coat porn

Title: We Will Make Amends Ere Long

Author: Pompey

Universe: AU-ACD crossover with Disney's Gargoyles

Warnings: supernatural

Word count: 2256

Summary: A detective, a human-turned-gargoyle, and a man who doesn't exist walk into a castle. Hijinks ensue? Part 10/10

Prompt: July 11 – coats

Author's Note: Spoiler for the Gargoyle episode "The Gathering Part 2" in addition to playing a little fast and loose with Gargoyle canon. (Incidentally, if you have access to American youtube channels, I recommend watching "Awakening Parts 1 and 2" at least and also "The Mirror." It's not necessary to understand this story but it'll give some backstory as well as character-establishment. Plus, as Puck would say, they're fun.)

* * *

"Do not misunderstand me, Holmes," I said quickly. "It is not my first choice. I would much prefer to be human again. But I thought you should know my decision in case . . . Just in case. "

"Understood," replied Holmes curtly, "but I should like to exhaust all possibilities first."

"Why bother?" interjected a slightly-accented female voice. We both turned. It was the other gargoyle I had met the night before. Her wings were folded about her shoulders like a cape and in one clawed hand she held the book of spells from the display. "If there was a counter-spell, it's gone now." With one blow she rent the ancient book into fragments.

I involuntarily gasped with horror. Then, suddenly, a rage swept over me. That she was willing to so cruelly and callously deny me a chance to reverse the spell made me see that I could never spend my life with such a creature. I have never in my life harmed a woman, but at that moment I was quite ready to spring at her and dash her brains out on the stones. Faintly, I was aware of a deep growling sound but it was not until Holmes threw out an arm in front of me that I realized it was I who was making the noise. "Watson, wait!" he exclaimed. His eyes shone with urgency, as they did at the climax of a case. I stood down.

"Who are you?" Holmes asked her.

The female gargoyle snorted. "My kind do not use names but there is a human who calls me Demona. I was second-in-command of the last Wyvern clan." Her gaze shifted from Holmes to me. " _That_ is how a real gargoyle identifies himself."

"I already told you I am not a real gargoyle," I snapped.

"No," said Holmes. "And neither is she."

Immediately Demona brought out a sword and aimed it at my friend's left eye. "How dare you! I have killed humans for lesser insults!"

Holmes only smiled, as though she had just confirmed something for him. "Where did you pull the sword from? You had no scabbard at your belt only moments ago." Demona started and lowered her sword, glancing to her left where a scabbard ought to have been.

"And for that matter," he continued, "where did you yourself arrive from? I took the liberty of examining all the gargoyles on the ramparts during the daylight and the only new one was Watson. It is possible you flew – "

"Glided," I corrected, _sotto voce_.

"It is possible you glided in from some other elevated structure but there are none nearby close enough to account for your appearance here so soon after sunset. Also, I heard no noise that would indicate you glided here. Unless gargoyles are capable of silent flight?" Holmes turned my way, holding up his lantern, and I shook my head. If last night was any indication, gargoyles could glide with near silence, but not total.

"It is possible you secreted yourself somewhere other than the ramparts, but that would have required you to climb here. Not only was there no sound to indicate you have done so, but the only new claw marks in the walls currently I observed earlier today, in the sunlight. I surmise your arrival was achieved by magical means and since gargoyles do not seem to possess magical locomotion themselves, either you are working with someone who does or you are not truly a gargoyle."

To my astonishment, Demona lowered her sword entirely and actually pouted. "And I was having such fun, too. Do you how long it's been since I had any sport with a human? Almost three hundred years! Ah well." She swung the sword in a careless arc and it disappeared utterly. "You're right, you know. I'm not a gargoyle – not Demona, nor any of the others."

A whirlwind suddenly enveloped the red-haired gargoyle and when it cleared, Owen Burnett stood in her place. "It has been a pleasure, Mr. Holmes. A chance at intellectual stimulation never goes amiss, even for one such as myself."

"And what are you then?" I demanded, unable to stay silent any longer.

One single eyebrow rose in that wooden face. "An interesting choice of words, Dr. Watson, but accurate. I am of the Third Race: Oberon's Children. One of what the locals call the Fair Folk."

"Indeed?" Holmes asked, stepping closer. He circled Burnett as though inspecting a new species of animal. Once behind Burnett, however, he sprang and pinioned Burnett's arms behind his back. I heard a soft snick of metal against metal. Burnett made one cry of annoyance but Holmes's steel handcuffs held firm.

"I had my doubts as to their effectiveness against magical creatures," Holmes commented, "but given the iron that went into the making of them, I thought it worth bringing them."

Burnett made one more futile attempt at freeing himself. "My commendations at your foresight."

"And yet, we have not reached the end of this charade," said Holmes. "No one in the village knows of any 'Owen Burnett' nor has ever seen a man matching your description, or at least, matching the description of your current form. Who are you really?"

There was another whirlwind and Owen Burnett was replaced by a creature that looked human enough, clad in a scarlet and purple tunic with red boots, save for preposterously long, pointed ears and long, silvery white hair. But his face was familiar; I realized with a start I had seen him in the dream I had dreamt the first night we returned to Baker Street. "I?" he asked in a tenor voice. "I am that merry wanderer of the night, that shrewd and knavish sprite."

" 'Call'd Robin Goodfellow,'" Holmes said thoughtfully. "You are Puck? The trickster fairy from _A Midsummer Night's Dream_?"

"So some have called me," he acknowledged, bowing slightly. "At your service."

I stepped forward and seized Puck by his tunic. "If you are truly at our service, then reverse the spell!"

If I had hoped to intimidate him into compliance, I was sadly disappointed. Puck merely sighed in an exasperated sort of way. "My dear Dr. Watson, you cast the spell yourself by reading from the Grimorum Arcanorum. Human magic cast by a human can only be altered by a human. No child of Oberon could change that."

"And you destroyed the Grimorum, knowing it was the only way to reverse the spell!" My grip tightened.

"Aah! Take it easy," Puck protested, trying to squirm away. "It was only a bit of fun – just a glamour and some dead leaves. Look." A strange breeze swirled up bits of the shattered book, hovering them at eye level. Then, in a flash of yellow sparkles, they became the same dead leaves from my dream. "The real Grimorum is still down in the courtyard, safe and sound."

I considered his statement in silence. I could not know if I trusted him to tell the truth but there was a very easy way to find out. Calmly, I sprang over the rampart wall into the interior of the castle, ignoring two cries of alarm – one from Holmes and the other from Puck, whom I still held in my claws. As for myself, some new-found instinct told me there was as little danger for me to glide into the courtyard as there would be danger for a child to pick flowers. So it was that I landed with far more grace than the previous night and found the book of spells unharmed and intact as Puck had claimed.

"Well, of course," the sprite retorted when I said as much. "Doth thou the Puck a liar call?"

I shrugged, finding it far easier to ignore the call to politeness as a gargoyle. "You claimed to be a curator named Owen Burnett and then a gargoyle named Demona. Both were certainly untrue."

"Pranks only, harmless pranks. You know, this is why I serve humans instead of gargoyles. Humans have a sense of humor."

"And perhaps when I am human again I will see the humorous side of this. Until then – " I carefully lifted up the fragile tome. "Which one is the counterspell?"

A greenish-yellow sort of light flashed from Puck's eyes and enveloped the Grimorum. Pages whizzed past so rapidly I feared for the safety of the book. Finally, the pages stopped flipping and remained open to a single page. "This is what I need to read?"

"Oh, not you," replied Puck, smirking. "Human magic cast by a human can only be undone by a human, remember?"

"Then I shall read it," Holmes said. He was slightly out of breath and I realized he must have sprinted down the entire stairway with naught but the uncertain lantern light to guide his way in the dark. And, I realized, he had done so because of my rash decision. Ashamed, I silently handed him the Grimorum.

As Holmes read, his words took on an echo-y sound, unusual even given the stone courtyard in which we stood. When finished, he gently clapped the book shut and replaced it in its display. And then we waited.

"Why did the counter-spell not work?" I finally asked, unable to bear the silence any longer.

Puck made a scoffing noise. "The spells are old and your accents are ghastly. Besides, it took _your_ spell a week to complete. The counter-spell will take at least that long."

Holmes's eyes narrowed slightly. "Are you able to . . . speed up the process?"

"Hmmm." Puck seemed to consider the request with an uncharacteristic seriousness. "Perhaps. I've never tried playing with Grimorum magic before; it might be fun. But why should I be so accommodating?"

"I have the key to the handcuffs that bind you," Holmes answered simply.

"Fair enough!" Puck rose into the air by a few feet and hovered there. His eyes took on the same greenish cast as before. This time, the light that came from them surrounded me. It was not a painful experience as my first transformation had been. It was, however, an unpleasant sensation to feel wings wither and curl, and claws retract into fingers. When I felt the familiar ache of war wounds once more, I understood how very complete the counter-spell had been. I made up my mind to say nothing about it. I had been foolish enough from the very start. I was certainly not going to complain about the re-established status quo. To compound matters, I felt chilly – alarmingly so – until I remembered that as a gargoyle, I could go about shirtless and be none the worse for it. As a human once again, I felt keenly the night air against my skin. Ever the detective, Holmes saw and deduced, and slipped off his coat to throw about my shoulders. I was grateful for the warmth as well as the consideration, though it was cut rather too narrowly to properly fit me.

Having tended to me, Holmes turned to Puck, who had returned to earth to allow Holmes access to the lock of the hand-cuffs. "Thank you."

"No, thank you," the creature replied, stretching his arms and rotating his wrists. "I haven't had such a romp in ages. Let me show my appreciation for the amusement you've provided. After all," he said, turning to me, "you wouldn't have read a healing spell in the first place if you hadn't had a need for it."

I demurred as quickly as I could but there was no stopping Puck. Up to the ramparts he flew and though his words did not echo as ours had while reading the Grimorum, I felt the rattle of them through my very bones:

This mortal man of mortal life,

And burdened by past pain and strife -

Return him now as he was before:

Untouch'd by the wounds of war.

Puck vanished into a flash of light and for a moment all was silent. It took only that moment for me to know that his spell had worked. I was able to pull Holmes's coat form firmly around me without the barest hint of a twinge from my shoulder.

"It worked?" Holmes asked me, holding up the lantern to see my broad smile. Then he froze in place, staring at me with a look I can only describe as shock and appall.

"What is it?" I exclaimed in some alarm. "I am still human?"

"Yes," said he immediately, though with a queer catch in his voice. "You are human. You are . . . as you were before."

"Then what is wrong?"

"As you were before you were wounded in the war," Holmes repeated, still with that catch. "At the battle of Maiwand on July 27, 1880."

"Yes, Holmes, I am well aware of when the battle of Maiwand was. What is your point?" Fear and fatigue, I regret to say, made me rather less polite than I might have otherwise been.

"Watson, how old were you on July 26, 1880?"

"Twenty-s -" Realization crashed upon me. "Oh my God. He didn't!"

"I'm afraid he did." Solemnly Holmes retrieved a folding mirror from one of the pockets of his coat and handed it to me. "It could have been far worse, my dear Watson. Puck might have reverted you back into childhood."

"This is sufficient bad," I replied, staring by lantern light at a reflection I had not seen in years. "How am I to explain being rejuvenated nearly two decades?"


	12. July 29 - snow wolf

Title: Hunting the Hunter

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC

Warnings: implied character-death

Word count: 150

Summary: Turnabout. It is fair play.

Prompt: July 29 – snow wolf

* * *

John Watson lay face-down in the snow. Slowly the white beneath him turned dark red. The sniper allowed himself a moment to enjoy a job well done before disassembling his Snow Wolf SW99-02B rifle with scope. He stood and turned. Only then did he see the score of red laser scope dots aimed at his chest and head. Game over. He dropped his pack and held up his hands.

Meanwhile, Sherlock knelt next to John and touched his shoulder. "They just signaled theall-clear."

With a sigh of relief, John heaved himself out of the snow and pawed away blobs of half-frozen, half-congealed fake blood stuck in his hair. "Well, I'll say this. Pretending to be dead is harder than I thought it would be."

Sherlock's face was paler than usual and deadly serious. "Watching my best friend die in front of me was harder than I thought it would be."


	13. July 30 - die tonight

Title: Imminent

Author: Pompey

Universe: BBC

Warnings: implied* character-death

Word count: 396

Summary: John wakes up with a feeling of impending doom.

Prompt: July 30 - you will die tonight

* * *

Working in the field, he had learned there were only two scenarios when a patient asks, "Am I gonna die, Doc?": when the patient is a hypochondriac and when the patient is actually in real danger of dying. So when John woke up one morning with an odd, unshakable feeling of impending doom, he took it seriously.

He took his vitals; everything was normal. He googled "impending doom symptom" but quickly ruled out panic attack, jellyfish sting, sweating sickness, and nutmeg overdose. He glanced in at Sherlock to see if there was some untoward experiment in progress affecting his senses; Sherlock was typing away at some new monograph for his (underappreciated) blog. He cautiously glanced out the windows at the nearby rooftops, looking for snipers; he saw pigeons and little else. He even considered contacting Mycroft to see if any suspicious packages had been left nearby but eventually decided against it. Not even impending doom was enough to voluntarily get Mycroft involved.

So. Nothing physically wrong, nothing environmentally wrong. John told himself he was being ridiculous and tried to go about his day as usual. Still, a not-quite-subconscious instinct kept chiming _you're going to die tonight_.

Trying to placate it, John took extra care crossing any and all streets. He even took a peep at his accounts to make sure all was reasonably in order. He paid his mobile bill even though it wasn't due for another week and texted Harry once. He ordered his favorite sandwich from Speedy's because if he really was going to die that night, he was going to darn well enjoy what remained of his time. He even followed Sherlock to a crime scene because if his Classical Literature course at uni had taught him anything, it was that those who tried to escape their fates always ended up running right into it. Nothing came of it.

John got into pajamas, brushed his teeth, and got into bed. It was tonight, and he was still alive, but the feeling of imminent death was just as strong as ever. _You're going to die tonight_ it said.

 _Maybe so_ , he silently replied, _but it'll have to be pretty quick because it's almost tomorrow and I'm still alive. So, whatever it is that's going to kill me, could you hurry it up a little and get it over with?_

Obliging, the abdominal aneurysm ruptured.

.

* * *

*but you'll note, I never say that Sherlock doesn't find him in time


	14. July 31 - audience

Title: Stage-Struck

Author: Pompey

Universe: Elementary

Warnings: none

Word count: 791

Summary: The things Joan does for Sherlock and the pursuit of justice.

Prompt: July 31 - **Putting on a Show**. Canon is full of colourful characters, and we all know Holmes loves an audience for his deductions. Whether it's a grand gesture, breaking the fourth wall, or just the conclusion of a case in front of a crowd, make an audience part of today's entry.

* * *

Joan, Sherlock, and Gregson reached the doors to the seating area just as the usher picked himself up off the floor with a groan, holding his freshly bruised jaw. "Police," Gregson said, flashing his badge before the usher could tell them that they couldn't go in there until the show was over. They ducked in immediately.

Applause met their entrance. For half a second Joan wondered how the audience could have anticipated their arrival. Then common sense reasserted itself. The clapping was for the curtain call in progress. Which meant that very soon the entire theater would be full of innocent people wandering around, letting a murderer get away.

"Sherlock," she murmured beneath the sound of enthusiastic clapping.

"I know," he replied softly, naturally having come to the same conclusion. "Gregson, Watson and I will keep the audience in place for about two minutes. The capture will be up to you and your forces."

Gregson looked apprehensive but nodded. Joan looked to Sherlock to communicate her own apprehension but Sherlock grabbed her hand and led her at a dead run around the back of the theater, through a doorway, and up the emergency stairs to the backstage. He ignored the angry whispers from the stagehands and snatched the nearest spare body mic, only releasing Joan to check the batteries and turn it on.

Joan stared out at the expanse of stage in front of her. Though it was filled with bowing, grinning thespians, it looked huge. She didn't know exactly what Sherlock was planning but she did know it would involve going out there, in front of hundreds of people. Joan didn't include public speaking among her personal phobias but going out like this – unprepared, uncertain, and already keyed up – was a shade past mere frightening. Then Sherlock grabbed her hand again and together they walked out under the spotlights.

The applause died back into practically audible confusion. It didn't help that all the actors were staring at them too. Sherlock fiddled one more time with the body mic and held it to the side of his head like a cell phone. "I'm very sorry to interrupt everyone," he said in a passable American accent, "but there is a very important person in the audience tonight that I think we all need to recognize."

Joan caught her breath. He wasn't going to tell everyone that the police had followed a murderer here, was he?!

"Our grandfather, William Escott, has a birthday tonight. He's also a veteran of not only World War II but the Korean War. I'm not going to ask him to stand up – he's got arthritis – but we'd like to lead you all in singing 'Happy Birthday' and our national anthem to a man who's a real hero." Sherlock lowered the mic and held it up between their faces.

Time went a little strange for Joan. Not that it slowed down, exactly, but terror made her exquisitely aware of every microsecond that passed. Of how big the stage was. Of how many eyes were staring at them. Of how hot the lights were. She cleared her throat ineffectively and tried to join in as Sherlock began singing, "Happy Birthday."

Incredibly, the audience joined in. Eagerly. Behind them, the actors with musical training joined in too, even adding some harmonies. But Joan knew from med school that singing "Happy Birthday" took all of fifteen seconds, tops. And did Sherlock, being English and all, know the words to America's national anthem?

Shakily, she chose to start on a note that she hoped was low enough to let her reach the high notes later on. Sherlock quirked one eyebrow at her but followed her lead. A few orchestra members suddenly burst into accompaniment and the audience took up the song, hiding the worst of their missed notes. Thankfully, Sherlock seemed to know most of the words at least.

They drew out "home of the brave" as long and dramatically as they could. The audience cheered. Joan stood awkwardly, unable to see any of the police through the spotlights. What would they do if they hadn't given Gregson and Co enough time?

"Happy birthday, Grandpa!" Sherlock suddenly shouted into the mic with a huge grin, eyes fixed on a certain spot at the back of the theater and waving. The audience lapped it up and turned around, trying to see "William." Sherlock touched Joan's hand and indicated with his eyes that it was time for them to exit, stage right.

"We got him?" she whispered as they speed-walked to the backstage.

"Yes."

Joan felt every muscle in her upper back relax with relief. She just wasn't sure if it was because of the capture or because she was finally off that damn stage.


End file.
